


A Bit About Boxing

by notearchiver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: deatheaterfest, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notearchiver/pseuds/notearchiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While searching for the Dursleys, Gregory Goyle makes a choice and learns a bit about boxing along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit About Boxing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 2013 Death Eater Fest.
> 
>  **Author:** notearchiver  
>  **Title:** A Bit About Boxing  
>  **Pairing:** Gregory Goyle/Dudley Dursley pre-slash  
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Warnings:** none  
>  **Word Count:** ~1.700  
>  **Notes:** There is an astounding lack of boxing knowledge in this fic (despite the title); any errors concerning what is mentioned are mine (and Goyle's) alone.

* * *

It was cold; and wet; and cloudy; and as the slush on the pavement soaked through the ratty toes of his trainers, Gregory Goyle wondered why the fuck he was still wandering around the outskirts of Muggle Rochdale.

The wind buffeted his jumper—stupid Muggles didn't use cloaks—and prickled uncomfortably against the scrapes he had gained from writhing on the stone floor under the Dark Lord's watchful eye.

Oh, right—the Dark Lord told him to find Potter's Muggle relatives. That's why he was freezing his arse off. Fucking wind.

Greg grunted as he jumped over a puddle, nearly slipping when he landed.

It's not like the Dark Lord or any of the other Death Eaters expected him to succeed, even he knew that. They all saw him as pathetic, lumbering Goyle—barely able to get an Acceptable on the Charms OWL. Greg shook the snow from the sleeve of his jumper. No, it was just a task to keep him busy, and if he managed to find the Muggles, well, that was a plus.

Still, he had to admit that it was nice to get out of Hogwarts some nights. Hogwarts was…different this year. It wasn't just that Dumbledore was gone—he couldn't care less about that—but the whole castle felt _oppressive_ , as if the walls were slowly melting. Greg shivered. It wasn't a good feeling. But Vince was there, always hovering by his side, the classes were interesting (for once), and there was food and a warm bed. And that was enough for him.

Stopping, Greg glanced up at the sky, trying to determine what time it was. Seven? Eight? His stomach was no help—he was always hungry—and he wasn't allowed to cast _Tempus_.

 _"No magic, Goyle. I want you to act like a Muggle, inhabit their mind. Of course, that shouldn't be too hard for you, should it?"_ the Dark Lord's mocking voice echoed in his head.

Greg shoved his hands in his pockets and began trudging down the slush-covered pavement once more. He needed to find a clock, which mean entering a building. A _Muggle_ building! Hopefully he wouldn't have to talk to any of those people, but—Greg shivered—he didn't want to return late. Snape couldn't be everywhere, and the Carrows had used the _Cruciatus_ on Blaise last week.

 _Best to just get on with it, then_ , Greg thought, his stomach gurgling. If he hurried, he might be able to make it back before the elves started serving.

He eyed the dilapidated buildings on either side of him. Most of them were boarded up, and those that weren't seemed to be private residences. All except for one large, brick structure across the street, that was.

Light shown dimly through grimy windows, and the walls showed evidence of years of abuse. Above the door were the remnants of a sign, letters peeled off until only bits and pieces of vertical strips and slanting curves remained.

Scowling, Greg crossed the street. He didn't want to go into the decrepit building, especially not knowing what it was used for, but then, the entire street was dodgy, and he didn't fancy walking further in the cold. Besides, he needed to know the time.

With that in mind, Greg grasped the wand hidden in his pocket and approached the door. To his astonishment, it was cracked open, allowing cold air to rush in. Grunts and groans emanated from the room building, the rank smell of sweat and vomit following.

Grimacing, he pushed the door open quietly, doing his best to slip in unnoticed. He was about through when his jumper snagged on the door handle, the old knit tearing with an audible rip. Greg looked around wildly, but no one had noticed. They were all too intent on what they were doing.

But what were they doing? Greg couldn't actually tell. There was a group of blokes standing around a raised platform ringed with stretchy-looking ropes; two men were in the ring, circling each other and throwing punches. The rest of the room contained strange, metal contraptions and bags hanging from chains. It was utterly bizarre, and he quickly scanned the walls for a clock.

None.

Nervously tugging the torn jumper down over his bulky frame, Greg realised that he would actually have to talk to one of the Muggles. "Shite," he mumbled. A hand landed on his shoulder, and he nearly pulled out his wand.

"Impressive, innit?" a tall, wiry man said. "Best place in the county to train. You new here?"

Greg tugged his arm free and turned to face the man, immediately noticing the scar slashing across one cheek. "Y—yes," he replied, damning the small stutter. He couldn't show fear; who knew what the Muggle would do? He forced himself not to shrink back as the man studied him. The look reminded him of the way the Dark Lord got when he decided whether to kill someone or not. He didn't like it.

The man nodded seriously, scar crinkling as he pursed his lips. "You'll do. A bit too much fat, but you have solid muscle under it all. I'd be you're pretty quick, too." Greg glanced down at his stomach. He didn't think he had much muscle. "Go see Dud; he'll get you started."

"Dud?" Greg asked, confused. Why would someone be named 'Dud'? Who would even choose that name? And what was going on?

"The bloke in the corner at the bench," the man said, pointing.

Greg looked to the corner where the man was pointing. There was a person lying on one of the metal contraptions, but it certainly didn't look like a bench to him. Still, he didn't want to talk to the scarred man, so nodded his head.

"Uh, thanks."

Some of his uncertainty must have shown through, because the man thumped him on the shoulder again. "You'll be fine. Rumour has it that Dud was bigger than you when he started!" he said before wandering off towards to the platform.

Taking a deep breath, Greg walked towards 'Dud', trying to act as nonchalant as possible while still studying the person.

The man's blond hair was plastered to his forehead and sweat rolled down his skin in small rivulets, making his face look a lot like Vince's after a hard Quidditch practice. Muscles bulged gently against the confines of his shirt as the man levered himself up, and Greg found himself staring into blue eyes.

"First time boxing, right?" the man asked, and Greg nodded jerkily, unsure of what to do, but assuming that 'boxing' was what the men on the platform were doing. "No need to worry; you have to start somewhere. I'm Dud, by the way. I'd shake your hand but mine's all sweaty."

Greg nodded, becoming a bit more confident now that he knew what was going on. He had been mistaken as someone coming to learn how to box. "I'm Greg," he replied. "What are we—"

"I just want to see what type of shape you're in right now." Dud eyed Greg's hefty form. "Here, start with the rope," Dud said, proffering a cord before taking his own.

Greg took it and copied the other man's movements, biting his lip as he concentrated on jumping in time with his twirls. Every time he looked at Dud he would miss a step and have to start over, all the while blushing at Dud's teasing grin. Finally he managed to twirl and jump at a reasonably quick pace.

"So, why'd you start boxing?" Greg asked rather breathlessly after an indeterminate amount of time, proud that he didn't stumble over the unfamiliar word.

"I liked punching things," Dud said, crossing and twisting his rope as he jumped. "Still do, in fact." He smiled, and Greg nearly tripped. "And you? Why are you starting?" he asked after a few seconds.

"I do too," Greg spluttered, wishing he could wipe away the sweat dripping in his eyes.

Dud stopped turning the rope and began to wipe off. "You do too what?" he inquired.

Quickly wiping his face with the arm of his jumper to hide his blush, Greg dropped his rope on the floor. "I mean, I like punching things too." Before Dud could answer, he pushed up the right sleeve of his jumper as if going to look at a watch, pretending to be shocked when there wasn't one. "Do you know the time?" he asked hurriedly.

Dud looked confused, but nodded and looked over his shoulder. Lying on the floor in the corner was a dented clock. "About nine-forty, why?"

"Oh, fuck!" Greg exclaimed, no longer acting. If he stumbled upon the Carrows on his way back to the Common Room…

"I need to get going!" He was turning to flee when a hand grabbed onto his shoulder for the third time that night, but this time it was gentler, calmer.

"Hey, I'll see you soon, right?"

Greg studied Dud's face. All sweaty and flushed, a blond hair sticking haphazardly to the corner of his eyebrow, he didn't know anything about wizards or the Dark Lord. That was the way it should be. That was the way it would be.

Greg's stomach clenched. "Yeah, I'll be back," he said. The weight of the lie roiled in his gut.

Dud grinned, cheeks rising to his blue eyes. "Good."

Nodding, Greg turned and began to walk away, the shouts of fellow boxers echoing across the floor.

He had reached the door and was about to slip out when he heard the voice of the scarred man waft across the room.

"That bloke's got some power, Dursley. You going to be working with him?"

Greg looked swiftly over his shoulder to see the scarred man standing by Dud.

Dud.

Dud Dursley.

Dudley Dursley.

The chords of a victory chant from one of the men on the platform rushed over his ears. He could tell the Carrows and get out of punishment; or he could go straight to the Dark Lord and be rewarded; or—

Out of the corner of his eye, Gregory Goyle saw Dud smile.

Or not.


End file.
